


Something dumb to do

by cnaught



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (the sex is off-screen), Drunk Sex, Hangover, Las Vegas Wedding, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning After, Victor Nikiforov is Extra, Yuri is of US drinking age, rated for swearing and mentions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25610014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnaught/pseuds/cnaught
Summary: After five years, the Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding is finally at hand! The groomsmen have organized a suitably epic combined bachelor party in Las Vegas. Everyone is careful to make sure that Viktor and Yuuri don't spoil all their planning by getting hitched in a midnight chapel.No one thought they had to keep an eye on Yuri and Otabek.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Is Not How A Bachelor Party Works, Boys!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10091363) by [Zetal (Rodinia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rodinia/pseuds/Zetal). 



> Uh. So, like a million years ago (at the start of 2019) I asked Zetal/Rodinia if they would mind if I wrote a remix to [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10091363) (which itself is based on [this tumblr prompt](https://selenityshiroi.tumblr.com/post/157920427504/you-know-its-been-months-since-yuri-on-ice-came)) and they were kind enough to encourage me. So, I wrote most of this, decided I hate myself too much to ever write anything again, abandoned it, then looked at it recently and decided maybe I don't hate it all that much after all. It is extremely dumb and self-indulgent, and I find in 2020 I don't mind that even a bit.  
> Title is of course from [Bruno Mars.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbcGfcF-FME) Seems weird to me that so many people legitimately use this as a wedding/proposal song, but if it makes them happy fucking go for it!

The first thing he notices as he wakes up is that the sun is trying to kill him by stabbing directly through his eyeballs into his brain. Yuri groans into the pillow. Alcohol is the devil’s brew. He swears, as he does every hangover, that he’ll never drink again.

The next thing he notices is that he’s naked. And… sticky. And, as he sits up with a wince, sore.

Otabek is asleep, curled away from the deadly sunlight. With the covers pulled to his ears, it’s hard to tell if he’s naked too.

Yuri hopes that Otabek is the reason he’s sore. They haven’t exactly talked about it, but Yuri has wanted it for long enough. No alternative bears thinking about; Yuri has hooked up with near-strangers before, but not while blackout drunk, and definitely not just before going to sleep in the same bed as his best friend who has also been the main focus of his sexual fantasies for the past several years.

He stumbles into the bathroom to piss and find painkillers, trying to piece together the scattered shards of his memory. The last thing he remembers clearly is the casino, none of them sober, Viktor and Yuuri approaching that state of drunkenness when one or both of them would start taking clothes off. Gross. Phichit and Chris and a few others from the bachelor party had been there to babysit and collect blackmail material; Yuri hadn’t wanted any part of it. Otabek winning modestly at the blackjack table, Yuri buying drinks to celebrate. He remembers how Beka had looked, accepting a drink, his face trying to be serious while his eyes glinted mischief. It was the same way he’d looked right before he pulled Yuri onto his motorbike the first time, or pulled off Yuri’s glove with his mouth. That look presaged trouble — the fun kind, the best kind.

Things get hazier after that. Dancing, a club. Yelling. Did he pick a fight? Kissing, his back pressed to a wall. Laughing, stumbling down a sidewalk in… wet shoes? Cold, wet jeans. A bright room, with… an arch? Flowers?

He catches sight of himself in the mirror. Jesus, someone really went all out — he’s leopard-spotted, hickeys and love bites scattered all across his neck and chest. He hopes it was Otabek. He lifts a hand to press his fingers into one of the more impressive marks, on the crest of his collarbone.

That’s when he notices the ring.

He’s showing incredible restraint. It’s been almost twenty minutes, plenty of time for the initial spike of panic to recede and start rebuilding itself as chilly dread. Nothing’s going to be resolved or decided until Otabek wakes up. He’s waited long enough.

“Beka.” He shakes a blanket-muffled shoulder. The figure underneath groans, indistinct. Yuri shakes him again. “Otabek. I need you to wake up.” Yuri is seriously impressed with himself. He almost sounds calm.

A hand emerges, slowly pulls the blanket away from a face with bleary slitted eyes. “Yura?” he rasps, blinking. “You okay?”

Yuri smiles thinly and avoids the question. “How do you feel?”

He rubs his eyes and forehead, one-handed. “Hungover,” he admits.

“Yeah. I brought you some water and aspirin.”

He tilts his face toward the bedside table. “Thank you,” he murmurs, reaching for the pills.

_Don’t thank me yet,_ Yuri wants to say. “Notice anything else?” he prods. “Anything unusual?”

As Otabek pulls himself up to seated, the covers fall from his bare upper body. He takes a few long swallows of water; Yuri tries not to feel weird about watching his throat move. “Naked,” he notes, and goes suddenly very still. He turns to Yuri. “Did we…?”

Yuri shrugs. The hotel robe he’d pulled on shifts over his shoulders. “I don’t remember either. I think so.” He adjusts his weight on his tender backside. “Pretty sure.”

“Oh.” His eyes are wide, fixed on the gap in the robe at Yuri’s collar. Right — the hickey collection. Yuri wonders if he remembers making them. He looks up, into Yuri’s face. “Yura.” His voice, soft and careful.

He’s worried. _He sees I’m freaked out, and he thinks it’s because we fucked._ So sweet. “Beka, look at your hand.”

Yuri watches it happen in real time. His right hand, that had rubbed his face, retrieved the pills, held the glass: normal. Left, the side he’d been sleeping on. Fourth finger. Yuri sees the moment his breath catches. “What.”

“Yeah.” Yuri holds up his own hand to Beka’s shocked gaze, matching carved death’s-head facing out. “I found the marriage certificate, and, uh, the rest of our clothes, in the other room. Congratulations.” His face sketches an empty half-grin. “We’re a Vegas cliché.”

Beka just gapes. He looks shocked. Horrified. _Sick._ Maybe that’s just the hangover, but it’s definitely not the most flattering reaction. Otabek swears, quietly, and presses his face into his hands.

A few moments of silence, Yuri perched awkwardly at the edge of the bed, Otabek curled in on himself. A few moments, then Beka unfolds enough to speak without meeting Yuri’s eyes. “We can cancel it. Right? Undo it.”

This is, without question, the reasonable course of action. It still stings a bit that it’s such an immediate choice. Yuri pulls himself fully onto the bed, tucking his legs under him, and says, “Yeah. We could do that, if you want.”

Otabek looks at him then, over his fingers. Doesn’t speak, just waits for Yuri to elaborate. Yuri trips over himself a little to fill the silence. “The more I think about it, I kind of—” he looks down at his hand, the little grinning skull — “don’t want to?”

Silence, again. He’s learned a lot about different textures of silence, hanging out with Beka. This one is baffled. “Yura.” Otabek lets his hands drop to his lap. “Yesterday we weren’t even dating.”

“I know, but.” He _likes_ the little skull. The stone it’s carved from, a deep dark brown with flashing streaks of gold. It would be incredibly, unforgivably corny to suggest that it reminds him a little bit of Beka’s eyes. “Hell. I’ve wanted to get in your pants so _fucking_ long, if this is the way I finally do it then—”

“It’s not about sex.” There’s a sharpness to his tone that makes Yuri flinch. Yuri glances up to see a real, genuine glower; the _what do you mean you’ve been skipping meals,_ the _get that ankle checked now before you cripple yourself,_ the _I expect better from you than this bullshit, Plisetsky._ “Yura, we’re _married._ That’s…” He sounds exasperated, but with a thrumming edge that Yuri can’t exactly place. His mouth opens, closes, on a syllable that never forms. Finally he just mutters, “Please be serious.”

Fuck. Yeah, okay. Bad time to joke. Yuri needs to remember he’s got a twenty minute head start on freaking out and calming down and thinking about it. “I’m saying it wrong,” he tries. “But I am serious.” He takes a few slow breaths to figure out how to maybe say it right, before he starts again. “I wanted, for a long time. And I didn’t do anything because — our friendship isn’t like anything else I’ve ever had, or — _seen_. I don’t know all the rules and I was fucking scared that I — if I pushed it the wrong way it would break.” Yuri chances a look up from his nervous hands twisting the death’s-head ring around his finger. Otabek is watching him, solemn. The force of his whole attention is intense, but sort of reassuring; when Beka listens like that, Yuri knows for certain that he’s being heard. “Terrified,” he continues, quietly. “Because — if it was just sex, there’s other bodies in the world. There’s not… another _you._ No one else I’d even _consider_ —” He gestures broadly between them, the two skulls on their hands.

Otabek folds his legs in front of him. Quietly, he asks, “Do you love me?”

Yuri grimaces. “I… don’t know?” He hates the question. How does anyone _know?_ “I haven’t — done that before. I don’t…” Floundering, he casts around for something solid. Otabek, watching him. Yuri takes a steady breath. “I’m saying that with you, I think I could. Do that.” He catches Otabek’s eyes, dark and warm, hears himself mutter “I definitely could,” sees those eyes flicker wide. “I want to.” If his voice shakes, it’s only because his heart is beating hard enough to rattle his ribs. “If it’s with you.”

Silence again, and Yuri doesn’t know the feel of this one. Otabek is just watching him, wide-eyed and still as if he doesn’t want to interrupt, but Yuri is done talking and — “Say something,” he blurts, “I just, I just fucking cracked my chest open and I _can’t_ with your stoic, silent…” Words trail off as Beka slides across the bed, close enough to touch him, to delicately brush a few tangled blond strands back behind his ear. The touch lingers on the side of his neck and it’s an effort not to lean into it, to curl under Beka’s hand like a cat.

He still doesn’t say anything, but Yuri can see in his brow and tense jaw that he’s working on it. Otabek is one of those strange creatures who likes to have his thoughts neatly lined up in words before he starts talking; Yuri obviously can’t relate. Though he’s never been good at patience, he finds it weirdly easy to wait this time. The fingers resting gently on his neck probably help. As does the view. Beka’s hair is a mess, yesterday’s product given new chaotic form against the pillow; his face is shadowed with the effects of dehydration and poor sleep, skin sallow, eyes crusty. He looks terrible. Yuri wants to crawl into his lap and never let him go. _(Don’t think about the fact that he’s naked under the sheet, and you’re just in a robe. Don’t think about it. Don’t.)_

He’s not thinking about it so hard that it’s almost a shock when Beka speaks again. “I didn’t let myself imagine,” he murmurs low, his thumb brushing the corner of Yuri’s jaw, “that this was something I could have.” His lips quirk just for a second, like at a private joke. “I didn’t dare.”

Yuri frowns. “That’s not like you.” Otabek categorically is someone who dares, regardless of difficulty or long odds.

The quirk reasserts, like the joke has gotten funnier the more he thinks about it. “You do that to me sometimes. It’s been noted.” His hand settles to fit the curve of Yuri’s nape. Yuri feels lightheaded, the heat of Beka’s palm against his thudding pulse. “I’m stubborn. I want to make my own way, follow my own path. With you—” He huffs, somewhere between laugh and sigh. “It’s like a heliotrope to the sun.”

Yuri is trying, really trying, to follow his meaning and not get lost in the soothing resonance of his voice, the solid warmth of his fucking hand on Yuri’s skin. The small part of Yuri’s brain that isn’t fizzing kaleidoscopic with sensory stimulus thinks, _that’s bad, isn’t it? If I make him less independent, less himself…_

Soft and sure, Beka says, “I think I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Oh. Well.

Yuri takes it in as a breath and exhales motion, climbing onto his lap, running his hands into Beka’s mussed hair. Beka’s lips are dry and his mouth tastes like something died in it, and it should be distressing how much that doesn’t deter Yuri from kissing him.

“I want this,” he growls, a rumble against Yuri’s chest, intensity in his tone that shivers through Yuri’s blood. “It might be dumb, might end in disaster.” His fingers catch in Yuri’s hair; Yuri gasps, tilts his head to expose his throat to that hot mouth. Which, frustratingly, doesn’t connect. Yuri turns his face, tugging against the constraint. Beka’s eyes on him are hungry but hesitant, like Yuri’s a feast to which he’s not sure he’s been invited. “I want it.” It’s almost a plea. “However long it lasts.”

_“Yes,”_ Yuri agrees, and pushes him down to the bed.

Yuri is too sore to precisely recreate their wedding night. Otabek, adorably aghast, traces the edge of a bruise on Yuri’s hip that corresponds exactly to his own thumb. “Don’t worry about it,” Yuri grumbles, trying not to be embarrassed. “I was probably really fucking impatient. I, uh. Sometimes I like it rough.”

He goes so still for so long that Yuri thinks he might be broken. “Beka? Hey.”

Beka blinks out of the glazed look that had come over him. His eyes on Yuri now are sharp with good trouble. “We’ll come back to that later,” he promises. Yuri flushes, grins.

In the meantime, Beka is vers, and creative. It’s more than adequate consolation for memories they can’t replace.


	2. Chapter 2

[image: greyscale, two left hands on a rumpled sheet. One is slightly darker; the other, pale and long-fingered, lays on top. Both have matching rings on the fourth finger, a dark cabochon carved with the face of a skull.]

 **yuri.plisetsky** sooooo… this happened #thanksvegas #justmarried #husbands #yesreally @ **otabek_altin**

He’d found his own phone bricked in his wet jeans — Otabek remembers pulling him out of a fountain at one point, which answers part of that question — so he took the picture on Otabek’s phone, sent it to himself, and posts it from the store as the first action of his shiny new replacement. He then turns off all notifications and puts the thing on silent mode. The Angels will be screaming. Yakov will be screaming. He doesn’t want to hear it just yet.

He scrolls his feed in the cab on the way back to the hotel, idly checking for any bachelor party shenanigans they missed. Near the top, to his surprise, is a post from Otabek. He looks stoically miserable, washed out against the pale bathroom tile so the dark bags under his eyes really pop.

“we are incredibly lucky that we ended last night safe in our hotel room, not detoxing in jail or hospital. if you choose to drink, please drink responsibly. know your limits. stick with a trusted sober friend, especially if you are in an unfamiliar place. and drink plenty of water. hangovers suck.”

Yuri stares at the dark pixelated eyes, feeling cold. And then, suddenly, hot. He stabs into the comment box, “wow ok thanks for making it sound like our marriage was a mistake”.

Almost immediately, Otabek replies. “i love you, my husband. we are not good role models.”

He’s stuck staring at that first sentence for so long that Beka has texted him twice before he taps over to see.

_a lot of skate fans are young_

_reputation etc. I had to give Gulzhan some reason not to resign_

Yuri snorts at that. Gulzhan runs Beka’s PR; her job is usually pretty easy. Her office must have a dartboard with Yuri’s face on it for days like this.

Beka texts again. _are you upset?_

Yuri takes a long slow breath, and releases. _no i get it_

He tries a few different phrasings — how much emotional vulnerability is too much for one morning? — before he settles on _i don’t want you to regret it_

 _I don’t_ comes back with no hesitation. Simple and sure.

His comment on Beka’s post already has several replies, variously panicked or gleeful, along the lines of “omg their first married fight”. He could respond, make it clear that they’re not fighting, something like “you’re right, fair point.” Even, “I love you too.” It wouldn’t quite be the first time he’s said it, though he’s not sure if during sex counts.

Yuri sighs. Better just to delete it. Even if it pains him a little to erase Beka’s response.

_“i love you, my husband.”_

Whatever. It’s probably already been screenshot a thousand times and will haunt them both from gossip sites for the rest of their lives. Yuri deletes the thread. After taking a screenshot.

The rest of the comments are a mix: a lot of well-wishes, commiseration, laughter, thirst — even wrecked, Beka looks devastating, Yuri can’t blame them — and … fucking of course, JJ motherfucking Leroy is there, a comment full of cry-laughing emoji and snide fucking insinuations about bad decisions and morning-after regret. Yuri is halfway through banging out a detailed all-caps suggestion of exactly how hard JJ can go fuck himself when a reply from Beka pops up. Mysteriously, all it says is “gatineau 7/15”. More mysteriously, when Yuri hits enter on his finished screed, the thread no longer exists.

He stares for a minute, then taps back over to texting. _do you have blackmail on jj_

_of course_

This is almost better than waking up married. _TELL ME_

_i will not_

_BEKA_

_you can’t be trusted_

_OTABEK I AM YOUR HUSBAND_

_YOU HAVE TO TELL ME_

_ITS THE LAW_

_1/3_

_that is not how laws or blackmail works_

Yuri can almost hear him laughing through the screen, the bastard. The cab pulls up to the hotel. Yuri pays while typing, _back now. i will persuade you._

_you may try_

Yuri grins. He’s up for a challenge.

He realizes about three strides in to the grand marble lobby that he doesn’t actually know where he’s going. _where is everyone?_

_idk. i’m omw downstairs_

He heads toward the elevators. His only warning is a barely-glanced incoming _vn was looking for you_ , before a familiar voice imperiously calls “Yuri.” He stops dead, looks up.

Viktor rises off the gaudily upholstered chaise in front of the elevator banks as if it’s all a set that has been constructed specifically for him to look good standing up from. He steps closer, trying to use his three-centimeter height advantage to add to the force of his imposing frown. He crosses his arms, glares down at Yuri and intones, “I’m disappointed in you.”

Yuri is tired of this conversation before it’s even started. “The fuck, old man.”

“I thought you had outgrown your petty need to upstage me.” His cold eyes glitter with anger and — hurt? Wait, is he actually—? “That you had _some_ understanding of what this wedding means to Yuuri and me. Instead you chose to make a mockery of it with this childish stunt —”

“The _fuck.”_ Yuri feels like he’s missed a step.

“— and to drag Otabek into it too, that is _low._ ” He peers over Yuri’s shoulder, as if Otabek might be skulking behind him. “I thought at least _he_ would have some sense.”

This at last pulls Yuri from drifting confusion onto the familiar shore of fury. “First of all,” he growls, stepping into Viktor’s space, _“fuck you,_ old man. Not every goddamn thing is about you.”

Viktor frowns. “This is _my_ —”

 _“Second,”_ Yuri steps forward again, forcing Viktor to back up an ungraceful step. “If you give Otabek even a _whiff_ of shit about this —” he steps forward again. Viktor almost trips on a potted plant. “—I will shave your fucking bald spot the day of your wedding.” Viktor catches his balance on the arm of the chaise as Yuri leans in, all menace. “I will get at your Armani closet with a can of fucking spray paint,” he spits. “Do not _test me,_ Viktor.”

Viktor’s ice-blue eyes are wide, his face blank. “You’re serious.”

“Do I look like I’m fucking _joking?”_

“No, I mean you —” He blinks, guileless. “It’s not a prank?”

Yuri scoffs, leaning back. “Hell no. A prank is something you plan.” Absent any pushback, his anger drains, leaving him feeling empty and self-conscious. It doesn’t help that Viktor’s switched to coach face, his gaze gone piercingly analytical in the way that Yuri dreads, since it always leads into a too-sharp appraisal of Yuri’s most frustrating flaws.

When Viktor speaks again, it’s not the tone Yuri usually hears cheerfully shredding his ego. It sounds more like when Katsuki’s pulled off something particularly daring, like when someone has managed to actually surprise him. “You really care about this,” he says, eyes wide and wondering.

Yuri scowls. “Obviously.”

“And you’re worried.” Yuri flinches. Okay, that was probably obvious, too. Yelling angrily to conceal all other emotions hasn’t worked well since he was sixteen.

“You said it,” Yuri mutters. “He has _sense._ He doesn’t do shit like this.” It’s not that Yuri doesn’t trust that Otabek means what he says. It’s just that he’ll trust it more after Beka’s had a day or two to think it over. That heliotrope comment sticks in his head like a sore tooth; he doesn’t want this to be something that Beka just goes along with. That’s all a bit much to get into with Viktor in a fucking elevator lobby, though. “I don’t want —”

Viktor’s gaze flashes over Yuri’s shoulder. “Otabek! Hi!”

“Hi Viktor.” His dark eyes flick between Viktor and Yuri cautiously as he approaches. When he reaches them, his hand slides into Yuri’s, as easy and casual as if it’s always belonged there. Subtle but clear, reassuring and picking sides all at once. Yuri clasps it; Beka squeezes back.

“Congratulations,” Viktor is saying drily. “How is married life?”

“It’s good. Thank you.” Yuri hears the smile in his voice before he sees it, tiny and sincere and glowing. “Dazed, still,” Beka admits, gazing up at Yuri like _he’s_ the one who can’t believe his luck. Utterly backwards.

Anticipating another snotty comment from Viktor, Yuri redirects. “How’re things back home?” When he’d left, Beka had been on the phone with his parents in Kazakhstan.

The smile turns a shade sardonic. “Confused,” he says. “I spent a long time insisting we weren’t…” He tilts his head, a distinct gesture of _you know_.

“Well. We weren’t.”

With just a _hmm,_ Otabek implies that it might be easier to let them think he’s been lying than to explain the actual circumstances. “Mom’s planning a big thing, when you visit. Everyone will want to see you.” He sounds apologetic. He’s never quite believed that Yuri really likes his extensive family, loud and chaotic and many as they are. His in-laws now, Yuri realizes. He’s going to have to learn to distinguish all the aunts and uncles and cousins, god help him. Maybe Beka will draw him a chart.

“Rayana says it’s about time.” Yuri laughs. Otabek’s sister has been shipping it almost as long as she’s known Yuri; she’s probably never going to stop gloating that she saw this coming before her brother did. By his dour tone, he knows it too.

“How is Nikolai?” Viktor interjects.

Yuri’s laughter withers. Beka’s grip tightens; he had heard part of their conversation earlier. “He…” Yuri sighs. “He’ll be easier to talk to once things have settled down.”

“Oh?” Viktor knows he’s stirring shit; the cartoonish pantomime of surprise isn’t fooling a goddamn soul. Yuri despises him with the fire of a thousand suns. “Doesn’t he approve?”

“He loves Beka,” Yuri snaps, “obviously.” Otabek’s thumb brushes his. “He just…” Their conversation had been strained. Grandad hadn’t outright said that Yuri’s being an idiot, but the implication wasn’t subtle. After the headlong disaster of Yuri’s parents, he’s got reason to be cautious. “He thinks it’s a little…”

“Hasty?” Viktor supplies, ever helpful. “Reckless?”

This time the tightening of Beka’s hand is probably just to stop him from lunging for Viktor’s fucking throat. “Not entirely wrong,” Otabek murmurs, relentlessly reasonable in the way that drives Yuri up the goddamn wall. But when he catches his eyes, something in their depth reminds Yuri of a conversation they had years ago; Otabek had told him then that being calm is a measure of control, not of feeling.

Maybe Yuri’s imagining it. Beka sounds perfectly confident. “He needs time.”

“Yeah,” Yuri affirms. The only way to prove they’re not recreating the flaming catastrophe of the last Plisetsky marriage is to love each other and stay together and be happy. That’s the plan regardless.

Otabek’s smile hooks into all Yuri’s soft places. He turns and, in two syllables, ruins it. “Viktor. None of your groomsmen seem to know today’s agenda.”

Viktor, delighted to reclaim the center of attention, claps his hands and starts planning a spa day, “since you both look _terrible.”_ Soon he is on his phone, organizing with Chris in ebullient French.

The two of them settle on the gaudy chaise. Otabek leans into Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri doesn’t know if this is a normal level of romantically demonstrative for him, or if the hangover is worse than he wants to admit. He hasn’t let go of Yuri’s hand yet, either. Yuri admires the silver band against the tone of Otabek’s skin, the black onyx skull nestled into its setting. 

“It’s going to be fine,” he blurts out. “With Grandad.”

Otabek is quiet for a beat, before he murmurs, “I know.”

“He’s just worried.” Yuri turns their clasped hands, traces the little skull with his free fingers. “He’s — it’s not about —”

“I know.” Otabek tilts his head to look up at him; he looks exhausted, a little sick, and so, so fond. “He cares about you,” he states simply. “He wants you to be happy. I get that.” His fingers twine with Yuri’s. “We agree.”

“He’ll come around,” Yuri insists. He’s not sure which of them he’s trying to convince.

“I know. He will.” Otabek’s grasp tightens, briefly, then he turns their hands again. “What were you and Viktor arguing about?”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Ugh, nothing. Viktor being Viktor.” He watches the ridiculous old man, pacing and gesturing expansively as he talks into his phone. “He thought it was a prank.”

“Hm?”

“Like, that we were, I don’t know. Mocking the institution of marriage or something.” He fidgets with his ring.

Beka is quiet for a long moment. When Yuri looks down and catches his wry expression, he rolls his eyes again, harder. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“It would have been a good prank.”

“Fuck _off,”_ Yuri grumbles. Beka chuckles against Yuri’s shoulder.

“I cannot believe—” Yuri jumps. When the fuck did Viktor get off the phone, and what’s with the gross fucking sappy look on his face? Yuri already knows he’s going to hate whatever the old man has to say. “—that _my son_ is married, and I wasn’t even _invited!”_ He pouts horribly.

Yuri is going to puke. Only partly from the hangover. “Old man,” he grits. “I’ve told you a thousand fucking times. I already have one set of shitty parents, I don’t need another.” Otabek’s shoulder is trembling, in what seems suspiciously like silent laughter. Yuri elbows him.

Viktor clutches his chest, wounded, like the dramatic fuck he is, before recovering enough to say, “At least if I had been there, I would have made sure you had a decent ring.” He glares down at Yuri’s hand like it’s personally offended him.

Yuri squawks outrage. “Fuck you, I love my ring! It’s tigers-eye,” he adds, blushing under Beka’s indulgent smile.

“Cheap,” Viktor sniffs. “And predictable. Honestly, Yura—”

“Fuck _you,_ just because it’s not fucking platinum and blue diamond or whatever the fuck—”

“—such a thing as being _too_ on-brand, and you’re a bit old for the teen punk—”

“—didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, you fake-dad piece of—”

 _“—horrible,_ skulls for a wedding, I can’t imagine what—”

“It’s perfect.” It is so rare — unheard of — for Otabek to involve himself in one of their fights that they both immediately stop and stare. Yuri sees him shrink just slightly under the focused attention. “For a wedding,” he insists as if it’s obvious. Under their combined blank scrutiny, Otabek raises their hands, the tiny black skull of his ring staring out at Yuri. He matches its intense gaze right into Yuri’s eyes, and says with perfect solemnity, “Til death do us part.” He places a kiss, gentle and serious, right at the crest of Yuri’s knuckle.

Yuri gapes, helpless. There’s no other possible response — “I love you,” he says, and oh he was right, it _does_ make a difference when it’s not during sex, he’s so fucking glad he didn’t say it for the first time on a dumb comment thread. Beka’s eyes spring wide, he looks — shocked, disbelieving, _hopeful?_ — so obviously Yuri has to say it again. “I love you,” he murmurs, tightly clasping the hand in his, feeling like he could drown in those wide dark eyes — like he would, willingly, cast himself into those depths — “I love you so _fucking_ much,” and he would say more but Otabek kisses him then, and all words, all thought flies from his head.

Viktor complains, after a while, that they are making an indecent scene in public. Yuri thinks that’s fucking rich, coming from him; he ignores it, kisses his husband, again, again, _again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "skulls for a wedding" thing is stolen from Dan Savage's account of his wedding. Their kid picked out skull rings for them, because "marriage is supposed to be until you die." Can't fault the logic.
> 
> There may be a very brief coda, which I'll add as a third chapter if I write it.
> 
> If you read this pile of silly garbage, I hope you found it worth your time. Take care ♥


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